


Heartache by the Number

by humblepirate



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Other, Revenge, SPOILERS ABOUND JUST FYI, first person POV, genderless courier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2018-12-06 13:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11601786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humblepirate/pseuds/humblepirate
Summary: It's been one thousand, nine hundred and sixty-seven days since the sun rose on a world without Rose of Sharon Cassidy. Not a single sunrise has passed since then that the courier doesn't wake up with her face in their mind and her name on their tongue, and not a single night has fallen that they don't think about the look on Jean-Baptiste Cutting's face when they finally get their revenge.But that moment is still a long way off.In a world in which looking at someone the wrong way can get your throat slit, it's impossible to know who to trust. The courier made that mistake once. They won't rest until they've made damn sure that the Van Graffs make it too.





	1. Roses Have Thorns

**Author's Note:**

> what are titles? haha idfk.
> 
> This takes place in the route where you don't complete Heartache by the Number and you bring Cass straight to the Van Graffs. The first chapter can double as my diary entry when I was too weak to fight off all the Silver Rush goons and let them kill my beautiful girlfriend Cass. I'm dead inside.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courier reflects on everything that brought them to this moment.

I’ve gone over every possible way that night could have played out, but in all this time, not one of those scenarios ended with Cass surviving.

It’s useless to keep dwelling on it, I know. It’ll only make me feel even more fucked in the brain. Either one of us would have died, or both. It’s simple math-- at least, that’s what I keep telling myself. Sometimes I think about what Cass would say to me, those times when I get so wrapped up in hating myself for everything that happened, but it’s dangerous to let my mind go to those places. Partly because even thinking about her is painful, but also because I know she’d tell me that what I did was stupid. And I’d be inclined to agree with her.

The day Cass died had started out so promising. We were going to just pop into the Silver Rush, hear Jean Baptiste out, collect my caps and then hop along as pleased as anything. Should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy. Things never are when you’re in love. We walked right through the front door, Simon greeted us with a good morning and didn’t give us a second look. One of the guards even gave Rex a pat behind the ears. A real domestic fucking scene. I should have sensed that something wasn’t right. I should have known. I should have  _ fucking _ known.

It all came together in my head at the last minute. The caravan, Cass, the incident-- God, why hadn’t I seen it? The Van Graffs would shoot their own mother if someone named a high enough price. I was walking right into the dragon’s nest, and the serpents guarded their horde viciously. But I wasn’t thinking about any of that. It had all seemed so innocent; I should have been more cautious, should have told Cass to wait back at the motel, or at least armed myself with something better than a puny fucking pistol. Jean Baptiste’s finger was already inching up the barrel when we walked in. Cass was walking a bit behind me, maybe sensing how much danger she was in before he even lifted the gun. 

I kept waiting for him to drop the gun and turn around, laughing at the cruel joke he had played on us, then he would complete his business with Cass and we would be on our way. I wasn’t prepared to enter a reality where I’d let my girlfriend die. That just wasn’t an option.

I think the click of the trigger was louder than the shot itself. It was a laser gun, top of the line, the latest model. Even when the mouth of the barrel was staring my sweetheart straight in the eyes I didn’t move. I didn’t understand what was happening until it was over and she was a pile of ash on the floor of the Silver Rush. I didn’t believe it. I couldn’t. It was just some sick, cruel hallucination-- Cass couldn’t actually be  _ gone _ , she was just here a second ago, where was she--?

Reality didn’t come pouring in until I woke up later that night in a room at the School. I saw Rex curled up at the foot of the bed, one of the Kings dozing in an armchair near the door, the empty space beside me. I think my gut knew something was wrong before the information reached my brain, because it pitched and heaved like a tugboat in a hurricane. Even after I’d finished ejecting my intestines into the toilet, I still felt numb, like my head was all stuffed with cotton.

I couldn’t remember the events between Cass’s death and that moment. The Kings who picked me up had said I’d been stumbling through some ruins like a dead person, wide-eyed and not speaking. I was almost relieved to hear that the Silver Rush was still in one piece. It was good that I hadn’t blacked out and gone into full rampage mode; it meant the Van Graffs still trusted me. In fact, one of the Kings intercepted a messenger from Gloria herself requesting me specifically for an important job that she could only discuss in person.

That was a good thing. I was still just a courier, an errand monkey without a moral compass, someone who could be trusted to carry out tasks with discretion for the right amount of caps. I should have felt glad. Instead there was just a giant, gaping hole inside of me where Cass should have been. I knew that I would trade all the wealth in the world, piss off every gang in the Mojave if it would keep her safe.

Going back to the Silver Rush the next morning was the hardest damn thing I’ve ever done, and I’ve been shot in the head. Simon greeted me with the usual exchange of pleasantries and I went inside. Gloria was waiting for me behind the counter like always, her guard dog of a brother beside her. I had to force myself not to let my eyes drift to the scorch mark on the floor where once my girlfriend had been. I gave a performance worthy of the Aces-- even managed to shake their hands without trying to snap them off. They told me about some job, more shady shit, same ol’, same ol’. The second they finished their pitch, I accepted, thanked them, and headed across the street for a drink at the Wrangler.

News gets around quick in this town. While the list of people I would call “friends” is tinier than a Great Khan’s ballsack, the Garrett twins come pretty damn close. They knew what I needed before I even grabbed my usual place at the bar. While they’d never go so far as to offer a drink on the house, they did let me open a tab. Most touching goddamn thing they’ve ever done. Francine even offered to “persuade” one or two of their prime whores to stop by my room later, but I declined. Quick, meaningless sex might have been how I dealt with my problems before Cass, but she got me fully whipped. I was perfectly content to sit at the bar and wait to see if the bottoms of those bottles would reveal a solution to the total fucking agony of a world without Rose of Sharon Cassidy.


	2. I Couldn't Find Any Flowers For Your Grave So I Got You This Whiskey Instead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A note in a bottle in a caravan in the desert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pop quiz: it is a fall out boy song or a humblepirate chapter title

I finally got around to reading that book-- you know, the Old World story that your dad got your name from. Wasn’t the greatest quality-- both covers were missing and a couple pages might have been straight radioactive, but that’s about as good as you can get in the Wastes. I couldn’t remember much of what you told me about it, but I described it as best I could, and the kid who sold it to me swore up and down it was the right one. Said it was written by some fella named Stine Beck. I’m still not entirely sure it wasn’t a crock of shit.

In the book they called her Rosasharn. That made me smile. She didn’t remind me of you at all, though. She was a right bitch, wasn’t she? Acting so high and mighty ‘cause she had some big shot husband and her big shot baby that was gonna be the next goddamn messiah. And that part at the end, where she let some homeless fella suck on her tits? Old World writers were into some weird shit. I think you would have laughed at that part. I miss your laugh.

The pain hasn’t exactly left. It’s like a bullet hole that won’t heal right. I treat it like I’d treat any gun wound-- with copious amounts of scotch, or sometimes vodka if I’m feeling frisky. Nothing much has changed, but I’ll keep you updated on my progress.

There was an empty bottle on the nightstand with lipstick on the rim. How come you never told me you wear makeup? I would have bought you some for your birthday. You would look so pretty with a little bit of rouge. And now I’m bracing myself for a good whack on the head for saying something like that. Anyway, I thought I’d save the bottle, but it’s harder than you’d think. Glass is such a fragile thing out here, and nine months is such a long time. I’m not sure how much longer I can carry it, Cass. It’s so heavy. It hurts all the time, especially at night, when I fall asleep without you next to me. I haven’t been truly warm since you left, Cass. It gets so cold out here in the desert when the sun is gone.

I think I have to leave it, Cass. I can’t bury it with you, because you never got a grave. I’ve heard of people putting messages in bottles and throwing them in the ocean, but even if I could make it that far, the radioactive waste would probably melt it before it broke the surface. So I’m leaving it here, next to your old caravan. We never got to pay our respects together, so now I’m saying goodbye to the both of you. You’ll be happy to know that the sands haven’t taken it over. It’s been looted to the bones, but there’s still plenty visible. Even some shrubbery growing around it, clinging to the wood, like a hug from an old friend.

I wonder if anyone will find this note. Will your lipstick still be on the rim of the bottle? I won’t be around to find out anyway. I’m saying goodbye for real this time, Cass. I can’t keep going like this. My heart is too heavy.

Don’t cry, my love. You’ll see me again someday. Sooner rather than later, the way things have been going for me. Hah. Until then, just remember that I love you.

 

P.S. Rex sends his love.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The courier receives a dangerous offer.

I lean against the worn brick facade of the Silver Rush, scanning the empty streets and trying to think of something to keep my mind off the way the sun is broiling my body in this combat armor. Door duty certainly isn’t the most exciting job in the world, but it pays, so I don’t mind it much. Most of the time it’s nice to get a little reprieve from running all over Freeside carrying out the Van Graffs’ orders. Other times, I get so bored I almost wish for a rowdy drunk to come along, just so I have something to do.

Simon isn’t one for chatting on duty. He takes his job seriously, too seriously if you ask me, though of course no one ever does. It’s one of the things that I both admire and loathe about him. The only time he speaks on the clock is to greet a regular customer, or turn away a sketchy character. The rest of the time we just stand, baking in the sun.

The Kings rarely come over this way since I started working here. The Van Graffs know I used to roll with them back when I first came to Freeside. I never talk about those days, and no one asks me about them, but that doesn’t mean they don’t wonder. Still, even back then it was pretty clear that there wasn’t much love between me and Pacer, and considering his feud with my new bosses-- well, most folks can put two and two together.

It’s not like there’s some big war between them, or anything. Each group knows its place in the Freeside food chain. There’s a distinct hierarchy, certainly, but even the bottom feeders are necessary to maintaining the perilous balance of life in the city. None can exist without the others. It’s just life, really. So the Kings are safe, long as they don’t get in the way of the family or stray too far from the School. Or, apparently, act too chummy with me.

Back when we were still forming our big plan, I would go up to the roof of my building, sit down to watch the sunset, throw back a couple beers, and wait. Sometimes it would be hours before I saw the signal. Every night a couple of the guys would gather by the window to smoke and shoot the shit. On the nights when we wanted to chat, one of them would have some trouble with his lighter. I’d watch them and count the pattern of the sparks. They’d alternate long and short flickers to spell out a message for me. They got it from an Old World military book, called it Moore’s Code. They’d ask me a question, and someone would be watching from another window with some binoculars for my response. I would prop my feet up on the ledge depending on my answer. A straight yes, I’d put both feet up on the ledge; no, I’d put one foot up. We devised a whole bunch of other signals for whatever answers I might need to give or questions to ask, but most of them have slipped my mind.

I still go out on the roof every night, more out of habit than anything. At first I would stare at the back of the School, waiting, waiting for a signal. After a couple weeks my eyes stopped flicking to the window every ten seconds, and I leaned into the loneliness. I switched from beer to tequila-- much harder to get, but strong enough that I don’t need a lot to reach prime slosh level, so it lasts longer-- and whenever I finish a bottle I stash it in this little nook in the rubble. I don’t think anyone else comes up here because my chair’s always in the same place and the dirt is always undisturbed by new footprints. I’m not sure why I save the bottles. It’s a habit, I suppose. There’s so many of them now, I ought to find a new hiding place pretty soon. Five years’ worth of bad habits.

The achingly blue sky is all shot through with red like burn marks. Red smoke, red clouds, red blood. Nobody knows exactly what’s causing it. I’ve heard whispers, of course, stories of long-dormant tribals and secretive nomads. Bunch of bologna, all of it. Whatever it is, ain’t nothing natural, and sure as my head is round there’s nothing but trouble in those hills. We Freesiders aren’t explorers, you see. We’re scavengers and hooligans, but we don’t go looking for danger. We’re happy inside our metal walls, playing pretend at normal.

Still. One can’t help but wonder.

I heft the laser rifle in my arms, adjusting my grip as well as I can with the restrictive armor. The leather vambraces make it difficult to do much of anything with my gun besides point and shoot. Long gone are the days of dual-wielding submachine guns from the roof of a speeding truck. After all, I’m not a soldier; I’m a sentinel. Dispensable.

A figure stumbles out of the wavering heat, their feet weaving with inebriated uncertainty. Next to me, Simon stiffens almost imperceptibly. We don’t pause in our dedicated scanning of the barren street, but we keep a point on the stranger, an ever-growing blip on our unwavering radar.

In the stillness of the day, the drunk’s shoes scuffing on the ruined asphalt is cacophonous.

Simon doesn’t speak until the stranger is close enough to kiss the barrel of his gun. The stony “Halt” is like a whip crack, stopping the person straight.

“I would like one gun, pleash,” they slur.

“We’re not serving you. Get lost,” Simon replies.

The stranger narrows their eyes and holds their fists up, poised for a fight, but seems to lose their wind and collapses to the ground. Simon sighs.

“Up you get, now,” he says, nudging them with a foot. When there is no response, he sighs again and gives me a subtle nod.

I shoulder my rifle and with my free hand yank the drunk onto their feet. They cling to my arm for a moment to steady themselves, head lolling to the side, and as our eyes meet a twinge of familiarity plucks at my gut. I feel like I ought to say something, but then my training takes over and I shove them back. They waver, steady, then shuffle along down the road, flipping the bird as they go.

We roast in the New Vegas sun for another hour before the next shift comes to relieve us. Simon doesn’t speak as we head around to the back entrance to the employee washrooms. Normally I’m glad for it, but today the silence is grating on my frayed nerves. My fingers itch for something to expend the jittery energy in my veins. It’s unusual for me to feel this wired after a shift. I don’t trust it.

I’m careful when removing my armor, sure that the smallest button out of place would earn me a pay cut and a good pistol whipping. I unstrap the exterior joint guards and place them gently on their hooks, then set about wriggling off the bulky shoulder pads. They’re strapped to the rest of the armor by a series of complex buttons and hooks and it takes me a good ten minutes just to get that part off. I start to undo the straps of my vambrace, but as soon as it loosens something slides out and clatters at my feet.

I set the armor aside and bend to pick up the object. It’s a chip, thin and made of burnished brass with the Lucky 38 logo pressed into one side. I turn it over and what I see on the other side makes my heart stutter.

-.-. . .-. ..- .-.. . .- -. / -.. ..- ... -.-

CERULEAN. DUSK.

  
  


I crouch beneath the lip of the rooftop, thumb worrying a divot in the chamber of my rusty .357 magnum, my other hand strangling the neck of a bottle of whiskey. Cliche, I know. My nerves haven’t calmed since the end of my shift, and the smoky burn is familiar and grounding. I watch the red smoke curl out of the hills beyond the city limits and I wait.

They appear like shadows, three of them straight and still as ramrods. Even in the gloom of the encroaching night, their immaculate hair glistens with pomade. One of them puffs on a cigarette, the thin glow of the butt illuminating his face for just a moment. His smile is cocky and out of place in this setting. I don’t recognize him or the others, though I can’t say as that’s a surprise. It’s been a long time since I rolled with the Kings, and gangs in Freeside tend to have steep turnover.

I pull the chip out of my jacket pocket and toss it toward the one who seems to think himself in charge. He doesn’t look at it right away, pausing to take a long drag of his cigarette and glancing at the city below, his eyes lingering just long enough to be pretentious. He’s trying to show off for me, let me know that this kind of back-alley dealing is old hat for him, and I would laugh if it wasn’t so embarrassing.

He thinks he can crap bigger than me? There’s room enough for two Old West cliches in this town.

I throw my head back and down the rest of my whiskey in a few gulps-- I would toss the whiskey bottle aside if I knew it wouldn’t make enough noise to draw attention to our little meeting-- then stand without wavering and close the chamber of my revolver with a brisk  _ snap _ . One of the Kings flinches at the sudden noise, but the leader just keeps smiling that irritating little smirk.

“What do you want?” I say, voice heavy with whiskey and threat.

The leader chuckles. “The King told me you were the impatient type,” he says. My only response is the cocking of my revolver.

“Jesus, this bitch is nuts,” one of them mutters.

It only takes a second for me to whip the knife out of my boot and bury it in his thigh, his scream of pain muffled by the revolver I stuff between his lips.

“Every second you spend dicking around is another opportunity for someone to spot us. I dunno about you, but I intend to keep living for the moment, so shut your yap and tell me what was so fucking important that I had to risk my ass to hear you out.”

As soon as I withdraw my weapons, the trembling newbie tumbles backward onto the tar. Thankfully he has enough sense not to call out, instead clutching his thigh and breathing thickly through his nose. The wound is shallow but fresh and his pants leg is already soaked through with blood.

The leader barks out a laugh. “Well ain’t that somethin’! I’ve heard the stories, but I never--”

The rest of his taunt lands on the tar along with a fleck of blood as I whip the butt of my revolver across his jaw. He stumbles but catches himself, one hand flying to the pistol on his hip while the other cradles his injury. The remaining King stands petrified, halfway between running and drawing his gun, but a signal from the leader puts him at ease.

When the boy straightens back up, his eyes are burning with malice and his unsettling grin is marred by blood. “Amazing,” he hisses. “Never thought I’d find myself facing off with the infamous Courier Six. And I gotta say,” he steps closer, brandishing his pistol with a thoughtless air, “I’m pleased with the results.”

“Much as I care about your opinion of me,” I snort, “You have exactly one minute to give me the King’s message and fuck off before I bury a bullet in each of your skulls.”

He laughs again, a cruel and unnerving sound that grates on my brain. “That’s just the thing, darlin’. The King doesn’t know we’re here.”

I pause, caught between listening and shooting their brains out. The boy chooses for me. “Some of the fellas down at the School are getting tired of his rule,” he drawls. “All we do is run around and try not to get shot. Like a bunch of prissy little  _ girls _ .” He spits the word out along with more blood.

“How is that my problem?” I snap.

“We could be so much  _ more, _ ” he continues, ignoring me. “We got numbers, training, weapons-- hell, we could rule this damn town!”

“I repeat,” I snarl, “why should I care?”

He cocks his head and takes a step toward me, menace glimmering in his bloody smile and the pistol in his hand. “Revenge,” he whispers.

Realization comes over me in a crushing wave. He thinks my loyalty to the King is circumstantial, that it diminished the day he allowed my girlfriend to be killed. That I blame anyone but myself for her death. What kind of stories do they tell about me, that they think me the fearsome berserker diminished by heartbreak and shackled by poor fortune to the very instruments of my tragedy?

But then, how could they think anything else? I lost myself in my new role as a tool of the Van Graffs’ judgement not because I was overburdened by grief, but because I was fueled by vengeance. The image of Jean-Baptiste Cutting crumbling into a pile of smoldering ash at my feet it what has kept me alive all this time. I’ve been careful in my ruse, so careful. How could anyone guess the secret thoughts I keep inside?

Instinct demands I set the little shit straight, but as has been happening far too often recently, I pause to think about my options. As far as the King knows, these boys are still loyal. If I kill them now, I’ll lose his trust forever and thus my only chance to warn him as a new leader rises among the rebels. I need to find a way to get them to expose themselves in front of the whole School, so they meet their punishments and stifle any remaining traitors.

“You want me to help you overthrow the King,” I say slowly, “in return for… revenge?”

“C’mon, darlin’, everyone in the Mojave knows what happened to Cass.” I flinch when he says her name. “Ain’t right nor fair. Just like it ain’t right for us to live under the King’s boot and sit back while good men die for him.” He takes another step toward me, his expression grim in the glow of the rising moon. “When we’re in charge, we can take over all of Freeside. Burn the Van Graffs alive with their own incinerators. How does that sound, eh?”

He spits into his hand, the saliva mixed with lingering traces of blood, extending it toward me.

I tilt my head, pretending to consider his offer. No way in shit that would ever work, and the look of youthful ambition on his kisser would be endearing if he wasn’t such a dull sack of shit. I just need him to believe I’m on his side until I can figure out a way to expose his plan.

I spit into my own hand and clasp his in a steady grip meant to hurt. He just smiles at me, that bloody, unhinged smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope it is, but in case it isn't clear, the drunk was the one who slipped the chip into the courier's vambrace!


End file.
